Kirthi Jayakumar

Gender Equality and Peace Activist | Peace Educator | Founder, The Red Elephant Foundation | Artist, Femcyclopaedia | Author, The Dove's Lament | Author, Stories of Hope | VV Lead Fellow 2015 | World Pulse Impact Leader 2016 | Recipient, US Presidential Services Medal 2012 | Recipient, UN Volunteer Award 2012 and 2013

  • Education

    Kirthi holds a Masters Degree from UPeace, Costa Rica, in Sustainable Peace in a Contemporary World. She holds a Bachelor's degree in Law from the School of Excellence in Law, Chennai

  • Skillset

    Kirthi's skillset includes writing, doodling, digital media, public speaking and legal research. She has basic filmmaking and video editing skills. She speaks English, Hindi, Tamil and Spanish.

  • Milestones

    Kirthi is the recipient of the US Presidential Services Medal 2012, the UN Volunteer of the Year Award in 2012 and 2013, the Global Peace Prize in 2016, the Impact leader award, 2016 and the Rising Star Award, 2016

  • What's New?

    Kirthi's book, The Dove's Lament, shortlisted for the Muse India and Satish Verma Young Writer's Award 2015, is on stands. Buy your copy here

    Musings

    Of Mary Poppins and Cynicism


    When I was watching Mary Poppins for the first time, I couldn’t help but think about how sexist and elitist parts of it were: the way the man of the house treated his wife, the women who worked in his house as domestic helps, his children and those who served or worked for him.

    And I found myself wondering if working or studying stuff like gender and society, masculinities of violence, peace and conflict studies, empathy training and such else woke the cynic in me. If not the cynic, it has at least made me look for these signs in anything I read, see or hear.

    Does that make me much of a cynic? The prototype of Oscar Wilde’s ideal “who needs a cynic who knows the price of everything but the value of nothing?”.

    I must admit it alarmed me for a moment – I began to wonder if I was losing my grip on looking at entertainment for what it is without giving it a complete analysis in my mind – sometimes verbally if suitable company would ferment the debate than to shut me up. But the fact is, I haven’t lost my grip, even if I say so myself. For starters, I am conscious of the fact that most movies, literature and entertainment outlets are heavily reflective of undercurrents that prevail in social settings of every kind. In some instances, they are undoubtedly exaggerated or drawn with more vivid imagination than what may prevail in reality. Admittedly, there are elements in entertainment and media that perpetrate certain undercurrents themselves – things like body image by relying on photograph enhancing tools to engineer bodies.

    But the fact is, seeing these movies, reading these books and witnessing these streams of entertainment shouldn’t be a passive exercise. If we’re watching a patriarch or a matriarch boss about in his house, we should be sensible enough to see that it’s wrong. No one has the right to command another on account of gender. If we’re watching an elitist run over – or even steam roll – his underlings, it is a flagrant wrong that many of us are guilty of, too. We need to use these points of display of our society as looking glasses, as means that will help us look within to see the flaws that are gaping inside of us.

    Maybe this is a cynical take on things, or maybe it comes across as that. But in a world where it’s “okay” to rape a girl when she is drugged and post photos of it on Facebook to where Steubenvillesare painfully and uncontrollably commonplace, where husbands can rape their wives and abscond, to where everyday sexism continues to take place, entertainment shouldn’t be taken so lightly. Especially when it borders on every chink in the armour of the global society.

    A step forward with compassion.

    I could start by saying that 2015 was a year I hate. But that wouldn’t serve any purpose: as Izzedin Abuelaish titled his book, I shall not Hate. In retrospect, it was a tough year. But it also had its silver lining, quite like most dark clouds do. Losing loved ones, dealing with depression and physical ailments that pushed me down like a line of falling dominoes. At the same time, building new bonds and finding friends and loved ones in unexpected places and times in life were powerful highlights.
    Here’s a look at 2015 through many different lenses.

    In Books:
    What else would a bibliophile throw up first? 2015 in books was a fantastic year. Selfishly speaking, I got to publish two non-fiction eBooks, one fiction book and contribute to an anthology that came out two weeks ago. In terms of the books I read, the two that stand out most are Perks of a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky and The Blue Between Sky and Water by Susan Abulhawa. I’ve never cried more for books like I did for these two books. Chbosky’s is a marvellous tome in coming-of-age-fiction, that brings everyday skeletons in the closet right before your eyes to deal with. Susan Abulhawa’s tapestry of truth is an unparalleled narrative of a people who have been wronged in the longest conflict since the end of the Second World War.

    This was also the year that I made a foray into the world of Graphic Novels, investing in Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis, Art Spiegelman’s Maus, Gav’s Zen Pencils and Joe Sacco’s Gaza. I haven’t read them yet, though, but just holding these books is an experience in itself. I’ve also consciously made an effort to look into 2016 with more lighter reading interspersed with heavier reading – really just to drive myself out of a state of pall.

    In Movies:
    For me, there were many memorable movies made this year in Hindi cinema, save for Piku. Aside of the potty humour, Piku helped me process a lot about loss, letting go and being in the moment in life. There were profound moments in the film that still remain with me, and will perhaps go onto shaping the way I look at things and approach situations. That’s a good thing, I guess. So far as English cinema goes, Spy stands out in my memory – Melissa Mc Carthy is my role model in so many ways. She taught me to be fiercely independent and invest in myself enough to care for who I am, however I am – warts, dry and scarred skin alike. I also ventured into watching some old movies this year – the most memorable of which would be Schindler’s List, The Book Thief, My Fair Lady and Roman Holiday. Christmas time rung in Jingle All the Way and Home Alone – my very own idea of vintage films that will always remain on my list of favourites.

    In Lifestyle:
    I think I led the unhealthiest of lifestyles for the most part of the year – indulging in a lot of soda and junk food and not really eating on time. But one of the things I’m most grateful to for learning this year, is the art of Mindfulness. Reading the Buddhist Bootcamp and Thich Nhat Hanh helped me tremendously, and taught me the art of being in every moment, and enjoying it to the fullest. I began to learn to imbibe and reflect on things around me, and to comprehend things from a place of empathy. I can’t say I accomplished it as well as I wish to, but we’re all works in progress. I also began to doodle extensively, making piece after piece nearly every day for a while, until I was able to feel the invisible load of unsolved mindspace lifting once and for all.

    People around me:
    It was a mixed bag, this year. I lost my grandfather in November, and although in a way something that we knew was inevitable, it was still a difficult thing to deal with. Thatha’s passing meant the end of an era, and with it, a traditional and a beautiful bond that I wouldn’t ever share with anyone again. I also sadly lost a friend this year, her passing left me with a sense of guilt at not being regular in staying in touch. There were more instances of friends passing, of neighbours passing, of acquaintances passing, and of loved ones of dear friends, passing. In retrospect, 2015 was a busy year for The Grim Reaper.

    But on the flip side, I made some lovely new friends this year, and some are now really close friends – friends I cannot go a day without talking to. Special shout outs to Anusha Kousik, Deepika Ramesh, Kaavya Pillai, Mahgul Kunary, Megha Narayan, Megha Venketasamy, Pavithra Charan, Priya Balan, Ramya Rajaraman, Roshini John, Shabnam Manati Khadija, Sriniketa Sritharan, Sujani Dwarak, Sushma Soma, Sriram Ayer, Vinay Ramakrishnan and Ziauddin Iqbal.
    My eternal support systems – Ashay Abbhi, Arjun Krishnan, Chintan Girish Modi, Dominique Vidale-Plaza, Deepti Menon, Jane Shahi, Natasha Latiff, Neeti Jaychander, Nidhi Shendurnikar, Paola Brigneti, Salma Noureen and Sashankh Kale continue to be immense powerhouses of love and energy in my life that words are both inadequate and absolutely useless in expressing my mind. I’m grateful to note that Deepika Ramesh and Sriniketha Sritharan are also right up with these lovely souls I just mentioned.  

    Work
    Work was perhaps one of the best things to happen to me this year. Right from working on Red Elephant - with many plans of action implemented, dispensing aid to Nepal and Chennai’s flood victims, collaborating with Maya Azucena and having her as our Goodwill Ambassador, and with Sayfty for a year-long legal-rights-awareness campaign; to adding more on the writing side, this has been a good beginning for what I hope would be a good future. I closed A38 down, though, because it wasn’t holding fort as well as I would have liked it to – the sheer magnitude of the work that it took to keep something that had already sunk, alive, was both tiring and an unwise drain on resources. I got to be a VVLead Fellow this year, which let me take a trip to Johannesburg, but I couldn’t go because of Thatha’s passing. I had the opportunity of being nominated as one of the Axis Bank Burgundy Women at the Digital Women’s Awards in Mumbai, in November, and that was pretty surprising and beautiful. The Dove’s Lament was among the top five books to make the Muse India Young Author Award shortlist, which was pretty unexpected and moving all at once.

    What do I want from 2016?

    It’s hard to define what I want from 2016. But I guess what’s important at this point in my life is to acknowledge, accept and respect myself. Whether it is in mind, body, spirit or soul, I want to respect my existence, my story, my journey so far, and everything there is in the future. I want to be able to learn that everything that happens, happens, and the things I can change are things I will not shy away from changing. I want to feel my anger, but creatively. I want to make a change, but I want to know and accept that this change cannot happen unless and until it starts from within. I want to empathise, I want to stop looking back on my life with anger or grief at what could have been but did not be, and what I should have done over what I did. I want to find peace in the knowledge that hindsight is always 20/20, and that the future is much more than what I want for it to be. I want to go on my own soul boot camp. I want to learn to be bereft of expectations of every sort. 

    And 2016, for me, would be about this song.


    Thatha.

    "Hi Thatha!"

    "Hi, Thatheee!"

    That was Thatha, for you. He could talk to you about anything. ANYTHING. Locomotive engines. Why the Sky appears blue. The name of the little plastic thing at the end of your shoelace (aglet, by the way). Why shells have the sound of the sea in them. What the meaning of Mimamsa is. What the Das Pumpenhaus was in its original days as the Das Pumpenhaus. He would beat you hollow - even if you had a doctorate in it, and this is no exaggeration. He, is (was?) my grandfather.

    I bid goodbye to him the day before yesterday. And it poured in Chennai, poured so much, that all that sounded in my mind's ears was, The heavens weep when great men die.

    Ever indulgent, Thatha didn't mind me styling his hair. 
    He was a man of honour, and a man of his word - so much so, that there are people today in Kolar Gold Fields (where he was a CAO at the Government Hospital under the British regime and after for a while), who say that the fires in their house burn only because of his bounty and kindness. He was a man of leadership and charisma - he hoisted the first flag of Independent India in Kolar. As a child, his knowledge of geography in a school for boys in Triplicane, Chennai, baffled his teacher - enough to give Thatha the moniker, simhakutty, or lion cub. His English teacher learned words from him. Once, in his English class, the teacher asked him what a cross meant, in a manner that a teacher would, to quiz his students. Thatha stood up - and this was when he was in Second Form, perhaps the equivalent of Class 6 / 7 in today's structure - and said, "A Crucifix". His teacher blinked and asked Thatha, "What is a crucifix, pa?" From that day on, Thatha had to come to school to teach the boys in his class one new word.

    Thatha was an incredible soul. He lived life the way one should: independently. He would sleep at 8:00 PM, wake up by 2:30 or 3:00 AM. Make his own coffee, leave the house (even in the biting cold on wintry days) in the morning on his Kinetic Honda to buy milk. If we were in the house, he never returned without candy, sweets or lollipops. He would spend an hour reading the paper, and I would learn the news of the world from him. He would spend his day at work - crunching numbers, doing honourary work for the municipal corporation of Indiranagar, Bangalore and writing notes copiously. He would bind his own papers by hand - using a native paste of home-made gum for it. He taught me how to type with such precision that I wouldn't have to look at the keyboard. He taught me how to do three things at a time, and not drop any ball. He would make a beeline to a little garden at the end of the road in our street in Indiranagar, Bangalore, where he would spend an hour with a few of his friends, chatting about politics, life and whatnot. Old men's Rendezvous, he loved to call it.
    We would spend hours debating anything and everything. He was a staunch Congress fan. I would refute him just for the sake of refuting him and to see his eyebrows wiggle when he debated me. I would flap his large ears and he would benevolently indulge me, and say that he was named dhonnai kaadhu, (ears like the make-shift cups made out of dried banana leaves) as a child. He could identify any raagam in seconds. I once challenged him and played song after song on YouTube - and by the end of half an hour, I was running out of raagamsto play for him.

    Home is not a place. It is this. 
    Between Bangalore and Chennai, Thatha made trips a couple of times each month - all to wage a legal battle on his own money and time for a company he once served. Each trip he made, he was never empty handed. Boxes of wafers, chips, biscuits, clothes and toys - every single time. One year, my brother shrieked and cried for a toy that had caught his fancy, and my parents had delayed buying it for him. The next day, Thatha stopped by at Egmore, the store where we had seen it, and bought it for him. When the "new Pizza Corner outlet" opened above Punjab National Bank - a bank which I will always associate with him - he ran to buy us Pizzas, because we loved them.
    A few years later, came a time when I would insist that I wanted to be a doctor, he told me that I would become the President of India. I laughed at him, laughed so hard till my sides ached. He smiled at me and said, "Now you won't understand. But when you become the President of India, we will see what you tell me." In my childish tongue, I told him that I wanted him to be with me when that happened. I did a rudimentary calculation. He would have to be a hundred when I was old enough to qualify to be the President. Thatha was quiet for a while, before he said, "We will see. Maybe they will relax the rules by then. I don't want to wait for so long." You didn't stick around, Thatha, you didn't.
    One smile, and that solved everything. 

    Thatha is one of the foremost reasons I walk, today. I was born with a condition in my feet called club foot - my feet were turned inwards. He stood in a queue for half a day, just to get me an appointment with one of the most renowned orthopaedics in the country. Today, each step I take, I take in his name, with gratitude. The day I started walking - and mind you, thanks to his and my mother's unstinting intervention, I had my milestone spot on, on time - as he once told me, three years ago, he was the happiest. He made me run and captured the moment from behind the lens.
    Thatha and I, doodling
    We had our own little inside jokes. We would talk of drinking alcohol until we were drunk silly, making slurry speeches as if we were veteran drunks. Reality: we were tee-totallers. We would sing Kalyana Samayal Saadham together - and even sang it together last week, I the first line and he the next, all the way until we would imitate the laughter in the song. He loved soda of any kind. Once, my brother and I had gone to the store at the end of the street to buy something for home. We were walking back, with a sneaky bottle of Sprite in hand, only to see Thatha walking up to us from home, with a bottle of Mirinda in hand. We admitted defeat - our trick wasn't as sneaky as we thought it was. But before we knew it, Thatha smilingly told my brother and me, "Let's drink it all up before we go back home." Three little rascals.
    Where are you?

    When Patti was hospitalised, two Octobers ago, he was her barometer. At the 10:00 AM and 5:00 PM visiting hour window, he was dressed impeccably, and ready to see her. If we so much as delayed taking him along, he would trudge up to the doorstep and promptly announce that he was going, himself. At the hospital, he would walk two flights of stairs, just to see Patti. The day she passed on, two Novembers ago, he cushioned the blow for us despite his obvious pain and grief. And today, two Novembers later, he joined her, flying as a free soul.

    People said he was old, and it was time for him to go. People said it was inevitable, and that I should not make a big deal out of it. True, it was inevitable. True, age does bring one closer to what is destined for them. True, it might have been time for him to go. But love does not come with an expiry date. It comes, instead, with the guarantee of immortality. I know I will carry this love I have for my thatha and patti beyond my time, beyond the day I will cross the veil and be welcomed with open arms by them.

    Somewhere in the distance of my mind, I see a memory. Eleven years ago, my mother, brother and I had visited them in Bangalore for the winter. We had to leave because  as it always happens, the mundane ways of life forced themselves into a place of priority. That night, they came to drop us off at the City Railway Station in Bangalore. When we got off the car and told them to go home, and that we would move onto the designated platform, they watched some vagrant sidle up to us and follow us. We were unaware, but the vigilantes in them awoke. Unbeknownst to us, while we ran like marathon runners, the two of them held hands and walked behind us. We had settled down in the platform, only to turn around to see Thatha and Patti, holding hands and walking gently. They had come to see that we were safe. Amidst tears of grief, poignancy and the un-verbal-ise-able pain that being moved brings, we said goodbye, assured them we would be safe, and let them leave.
    Be happy, always. 


    Today, that memory is vivid. I see the two of them, turning around and walking on a railway platform. But this time, they are the ones taking a train. And their train is going far, far away. It's hard to say goodbye. There is a selfish little secret wish to want to run to them. But I can't. And so, I watch until I can see the train. I watch until my tears are a curtain. I watch until the winds blow and whisper their names in my ears. I watch, until I know that they may be nowhere, but they are everywhere.  

    A letter from Me to You

    Dear You, 
    It doesn't matter if you are a man, a woman or a transgender. 
    It doesn't matter to me, what God you worship or if you worship none at all.
    It doesn't matter to me what language your tongue first learned.
    It doesn't matter to me what religion you follow, or if you follow none at all.
    It doesn't matter to me what size you are, what shape you are and what your physical attributes are.
    It doesn't matter to me if you earn six figures, three figures or none at all.
    It doesn't matter to me what caste, race, creed, or ethnicity you belong to.
    It doesn't matter to me who you choose to love: a man, a woman, or neither. 
    It doesn't matter to me what land you come from or what borders your government has drawn to claim as its own land. 
    It doesn't matter to me what your skin tone is.

    What matters to me is that your veins carry the same red blood that mine does. That your stomach feels the hunger that mine does. That your tongue can get as parched as mine can. That your heart beats like mine does. That your lungs breathe like mine do. That your mind yearns for shelter, food and safety for yourself and your loved ones like mine does. That your heart loves like mine does. That you dream, like I do.
    It doesn't matter to me how you were born: because regardless of what we may be conditioned to see as imperfect, YOU are perfect.
    And in that, I am you. You are me. 
    And in that, there is so much peace in WE.
    Yours Sincerely,
    Me

    Tsamaya Sentle. Sala Sentle.

    Few things in life give you the warm fuzziness that comes from a profound realisation of who you are and what you are meant to be, and do. And in that moment, you find yourself as you lose yourself in your learning: a vague thought, but definitely a powerful one – you might see it play out if you lived it yourself.

    Yesterday, I was on a flight back home after bidding adieu to my grandmother’s soul as a full year ended since her passing in 2013. Loss makes you question things: right from how futile life is, to how much time you are wasting while you could be doing a lot more. I suppose all of us mull over it at one point or the other – we are but an insignificant speck in the larger scheme of affairs, a tiny dot in a big map with one too many things snaking through it. And yet, inside each of us, is a simple microcosm that can expand to encompass the world:

    It’s like motherhood. A physical bond you can shrink into a single cell in the womb, or even a test-tube, but an emotional bond you can never find words to explain.

    It’s like friendship. An association you can physically capture and shrink into an album on Facebook, but an emotional bond that you can never express enough.

    It’s like love. The feeling that envelopes you in its fold with such gargantuan strength that you remain sustained by its existence for days, and days to come.

    In my grandmother’s passing, I learned a lot of things: that I must let go, that I must love with every sinew of my existence, that I must care and be the truth that I want to know, and that I must be unconditional. In my grandmother’s passing, I thought I had lost someone I loved – but it only just struck me that she still is around, sending me signs and messages through the encounters I have in life, the things I read, and the things I hear. 

    Yesterday, on the flight, one look through the window showed me a very orange moon. The shimmering scarlet against fog, clouds and a very black sky made me think of how much more there is to life than we know. Being one among empty, black space and the expanse that was the playground for so many journeys, so many dreams, so many thoughts and wishes, really makes you think deeply. Add to it the book I was reading. Jodi Picoult’s Larger than Life. I had such a beautiful awakening to the reality of it all: that there is a defined purpose behind why this beautiful opportunity fell into my hands. That awakening came in the form of Jodi Picoult’s words, which I will put down below:

    “As it turns out, you can love someone too much. Then, when they leave, your heart goes missing.”

    “In Tswana, there are two ways to say goodbye. Tsamaya sentlemeans ‘go well’. Sala sentle means ‘stay well’. It depends on whether you are the one leaving or the one being left behind.”

    Putting these two sets of lines together, only one thing comes to mind. That the ones you love don’t go anywhere: in their passing, they are still alive in your memories, in everything you do, in your life, and in your existence. Their lives have touched you, and you carry their imprint, their presence and their memories for as long as you go on your journey. When your own journey ends, Tsamaya Sentle, you leave after leaving behind your own mark on the ones left behind, Sala sentle.

    And when you do that: when you let go, and let yourself be touched by the memories while making your own for those you leave behind, there is a beautiful lesson lying in wait. The fact that it is all dust to dust - that one is never gone, and being united with them is not a distant dream. 

     “In the wild, a mother elephant and her daughter will stay together until one or the other dies. But there is one exception: when there are limited resources – a drought, say, or a herd, that has grown to big to sustain feeding all its members in a given area – the matriarch may make the decision to split the group. She will lead some of the herd in one direction, and her daughter will lead the rest on another route. They are still family, but they know that being together will bring about high mortality for the herd, that there is a better chance of survival when they aren’t competing for the same resources. But things change. When the land blossoms, and the rivers run flush again, the mother and daughter reunite. It is a celebration, a fanfare. It is like they have never been apart.”


    In that knowledge, I learned, that I could let go. While my grandmother is off leading her herd, I will stand here, on guard, leading the herd that is mine to deal with. And then a time will come when the land will blossom, and the rivers will run flush again, and we will be united gain. It will be a celebration, a fanfare. It will be like we have never been apart. 

    I will not bid Goodbye

    Hashbrowns, this is for you. 
    I fish about for a memory, A song, a moment, a story.
    Instead, though, I find,
    A place inside my mind,
    A time from not very long ago,
    With moments that are still aglow.
    A world that was my very own,
    With simple seeds of a future sown,
    It was my very own Central Perk,
    A place that let me enjoy many a quirk,
    It was my very own Mac Larens,
    A place with blessings from the Herons.
    With Peace and Stardust, and tonnes of joy,
    Things that no one can even try to destroy.
    There will come a time when they tell my tale,
    And pause they will when they come to hail,
    This milestone in my journey that started with you,
    This milestone in my journey that will always be true.
    This little world of comfort that we built together,
    Will remain happy as always, as light as a feather.
    These things, forever, will never be forgotten,
    For this was happiness out of happiness begotten.


    Emopotamus and Cererbral Potato join hands.

    So I have this killjoy of a friend (Arjun Krishnan) that turned 27 about four years ago. I wished the guy on his birthday and all he had to say was “Ah, It’s just another day, shorter of breath one day closer to death.” Back then, birthdays were all, yay whoohoo for me, you see? And I didn’t, for a moment, think it’d be any different. But the killjoy cursed me. “When you reach the ripe old age of 27, you’ll see.”

    Guess what, weirdo. I do see. And thank you for the heads up. Really. Sincerely.



    Besides spending this year oscillating between being Emopotamus and The Cerebral Potato - and today the two of them became one - I also had a lot to think about. I’m turning 27 and here’s what I have to show for it:
    • -          I’m not a cat lady. Yet.
    • -          I don’t think I’ll ever be a cat lady because cats are scary.
    • -          I should stop talking about being a cat lady.
    • -          I have my Master’s Degree. I am a certified hippie and have a certificate that proves it.
    • -          I have too many pages to administer on Facebook. Which is great, because I can now claim to have enough knowledge of Social Media to actually own those jobs that I’ve been holding down for a while.
    • -          I am watching too much of Mindy Kaling.
    • -          I love lists.

    Anyway. Speaking of lists. And this whole one-day-closer-to-death doom, I am sharing with you what I *want* for a funeral. Remember, just because I’d be dead, doesn’t mean that I won’t know. I’ll be around watching. Hindu Mythology says that the soul blinks around for 48 hours not knowing it died. Someone signed me up for that brand of religion when I was sent out into the world, so I guess that’d be pretty much what comes to mind after I’m gone.

    Friends of mine, take notes. Copious notes. Who’s to say that my blog may not just self-destruct at the precise moment when my soul takes flight – like that weird guy in some 1000-Awesome-Facts-Book I read at 10, whose unopenable-super-safe-safe flew open the exact moment he died?

    Number 1: My stuff and my people after I'm gone. I’m pretty sure that I won’t have too much stuff to my name except all my books. And these books go to Ashay Abbhi, Sashankh Kale, Deepti Menon, Neeti Jaychander, Judy Balan and Natasha Jolly. Natasha isn’t in India, so the books need to be shipped to her. Not that I will die in India necessarily – I could be dead in space in a rocket when I’m flying to find the next new planet that the world must inhabit (Interstellar, yes, I saw it), and the spaceship runs out of fuel and I can’t really compensate with that much gas though I do talk a lot of it - but my books would mostly be in India. Anyway. Back on track. Don’t make her pay for the shipping charges, because, well, she’s already devastated that I died – you don’t want to make her bank balance mourn too. Because that’s just rude. And really, really insensitive. And also maybe Ashay might need the books shipped to him, too, but again, don't make him pay for the shipping charges. Oh and I forgot. I also have these little vials of soil from all over the world. That goes to Kaavya Pillai. She will definitely be devastated that I'm dead, but don't hug her because hugging does to her what chocolate does to me. She can also take the books she wants, if she wants any. Plus, don't for a minute let her touch my pink turtle. She does things to it and they're just not right. Judy Balan is likely to be found crying in a corner, be very nice to her and get her a chocolate milkshake from Sangeetha's. She will cry even more if you do that, but it's a nice kind of I-remember-Kirthi-crying. Just make sure you have a sullen looking Russian guy attending the funeral, and let his name end with Vrski. When she cries, make him walk up to her and say "Oooh I am kazjdhgorynvglg-VRSKI." She'll smile and clap. There will be two people looking particularly zen-like: Sashankh Kale and Akshay Sharma. Just let them stare into space as they mostly always do. They'll be just fine. Sashankh might write a very depressing novel with all that inspiration. Well, good on you buddy. You might just also find a sad looking child in the corner with a Chota Bheem doll in hand. Anushree Warrier is what it will respond to - just don't let her near any chicken - it tires her, because, it's like a bird. 

    Number 2: Me. So obviously, I’ve just died. Don’t potter around at my funeral talking about the next Rajiv Gandhi Yojna or why Angelina Jolie’s seventh adopted child should not be adopting more Hispanic children and focus on Indian children instead (because, I mean, if I’m dead, Angelina Jolie is long gone. Unless I die young. Which could happen. But whatever). Talk about me. You can say all the nice things you think of - and if you can't think of any, make up something for all I care. Don't say a word about how I bit my dentist's hand a number of times and how I called my surgeon a bum - loudly - for not giving me anesthesia to remove a corn (see, I can't be tempting karma when I'm at heaven/hell's door, okay?). Just don’t feel super sad that I’m dead and all that, because I’m in your hearts and all that crap (So please stop stuffing your face, if you plug your arteries, idiot, you're killing me again). Anyway. Whatever works, man.

    Number 3: My picture. If my most unflattering picture finds its way up there, smiling at all of you with all heinous hideousness, I will find you and I will kill you. Even from the afterworld. And I will make that phone call to tell you that I will find you and kill you (India even has a cool cell phone network for the afterworld. It’s called BSNL. Bulk Subscribers Non-Living. Just kidding, Telecom Authority of India, I get that naming things is not really your thing. Or even running an efficient telecom service. But, whatever.) You’re not allowed to Photoshop (or whatever other awesomely hideous photo-manipulating thingamajig exists by then) a thing on my picture. And yet, it has to be a flattering picture of me. Good luck, I said.

    Number 4: My Music: I’d like you to play Celine Dion’s “I’m alive” and the Rembrandts’ “I’ll be there for you.” And then if you all get super weepy at the irony of it all, I’d like you all to play Regina Spektor’s “No need to say goodbye.” That’s my very gentle way of letting you know that you’re not too far away from where I am at that precise moment. Yeah, I’m a true friend like that. You can count on me. I think.

    Number 5: The ambiance. There will be no ugly white flowers from Pondy Bazaar like my dear friend Judy Balan said, for herself. Nor will there be those hideous yellow flowers from Pondy Bazaar. If you haven’t read my book Stories of Hope (What? Someone said <insert blatant self-promotion line here> and I just wrote it! God!), do make sure to BUY (I never said subliminal messaging and subtlety was my thing. I don't even have a thing. I mean, not that thing, I mean a thing thing. Whatever) it and read the story called Flowers for Frank Andromanque. If you get the flowers wrong at my funeral, that might happen to you. The funeral should be all nice and white. It should be outdoors, because, well, I’m sure that my soul will also walk right into walls, instead of through them. Play Four Seasons by Vivaldi when everyone’s walking in and taking their places.

    Number 6: My Eulogies. No soppy crap, please. I want all the fun people to speak at my funeral. You can, of course, say nice things like how much I made you laugh and all of that. Of course, I’m sure all you best friends of mine may not be able to speak, being chokingly sad and all that – so be nice to them okay? Make sure to call my carpenter, plumber, electrician and fruit-seller as well, because they’ve been incredibly kind to me at different points of time. Get Deepti Menon to do the honours, she'll be teary eyed, but she always says the nicest things. My soul's heart will swell and be all happy. 

    Number 7: The food. NO CHOCOLATE. Unless you want to see a corpse sneezing. Which, actually, is quite cool – and will make for a really awesome viral Youtube Video. Yeah well, go ahead. The food should be delicious, but not so irreparably delicious that I’m forgotten. I know I can’t eat all that, so I’m counting on all you guests to eat for me as well.

    Number 8: The things I inspire. I know there will be this brilliant movie producer sitting in the crowd, and when the moment comes, he will pipe up and ask to make a movie of my life. Give him the rights, he’ll do a good job of it – he has my blessing, of course. My role should be played by either Jennifer Lawrence or Jennifer Garner. I’ve been told I am as mad as the former and smile like the latter. If you so much as think of Deepika Padukone as a potential me, you don’t know me at all. Plus, she is at risk from Anushree Warrier, who will, tsk tsk. Never mind. Anyway. Besides all this, here are the things I want to inspire:

    • Ashay's poem
    • Deepti's poem
    • Dipankar Mukherjee's next anthology of short stories
    • Christopher Nolan's next movie
    • Mindy Kaling's next Project.

    Okay... I have to run now because this post was a piece I wrote during a break while trying to figure out what my supervisor on Skype last said in her very foreign accent. It sounded remarkably like Nagaraj has rotis in his colon, which is weird because we don't know any Nagaraj.  Oh dear, I have a long day ahead of me.